My Asphodel
by Progenitor
Summary: A beautiful flower blooms in the hands of a silverhaired Death Eater.


I got this idea a very long time ago. It is best described as a horrific romance.

**Disclaimer: **_Harry Potter _and all related aspects are property of J.K. Rowling, all rights reserved. The author of this piece is in no way affiliated with said organization, and is not writing for profit. Any similarities between this work and that of any other fan author is purely coincidental. In addition, quotations of the poem "An Asphodel" are property of Allen Ginsberg, all rights reserved.

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**"My Asphodel"**

By Progenitor

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_O dear sweet rosy_  
_unattainable desire_

The garden is death. I do not try to save it. Someone should. I must have loved the garden once, to go through the effort to plant each of those beautiful flowers, but only to watch them wither one by one. I follow motions, only motions. Emotionless.

My Narcissus smothers. She struggles against the garden of Death and reaches out to me. Her white petals shiver in a fell wind. She eats at the (sunlight) with a gasping mouth, but can't seem to swallow him. I wait, spade in hand. Snap, and I follow the motions, hollow emotions.

Nevertheless, the garden of Death eats my Narcissus. Emotionless. Her roots cling where they touch, but snip, snip, snip go the puppet strings.

And in the Garden, Asphodel blooms.

_...how sad, no way  
to change the mad_

Draco brings his girlfriend tomorrow. The New one. He tells me I won't like her, the Mudblood, because he likes her. But I think I will. The New one promises to be most pleasant company.

The room grows dark. My cloud covers the (sun). The garden of Death is trying to stop Asphodel, but Asphodel fights. Asphodel has a will to live, to love. A will to be the best.

Asphodel has something to prove. I watch.

_cultivated asphodel, the_  
_visible reality..._

Snow covers the garden of Death. Pure show. Asphodel is hidden beneath, and invisible.

Draco comes home with the New one. I meet them at the door and bow in welcome. Another motion. I cannot find heart to put toward Draco. He is already lost; he is already sunk in the murky Garden where my spade will not reach. Emotionless.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Granger. I trust your journey was pleasant."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy."

Asphodel produces a curt fruit. I smile, without motion. The New one clings to Draco's arm, but will not show fear. Pride to pride, a magnetism. Now I understand the fire of this pursuit, to uproot this one who digs her own so solid.

_and skin's appalling_  
_petals—how inspired_

The Asphodel later sheds the coat of white, though the Garden is still full of snow. She is in bloom.

"Is your room to your liking?"

She refuses to answer, and looks around the parlor for Draco.

"He hasn't come down yet."

"Oh."

I continue to watch her, but she shrinks away toward (sunlight). A night bloomer, unknowing, who has yet to blossom when the (sun) falls from her sky. In a garden of Death, she would be the one to flourish. Unlike the pink Pansy, unlike the Lavender iris, even surpassing my Narcissus. Unlike all the flowers planted in the Garden, who couldn't manage to thrive. Only the clever Asphodel, in living spectacle.

_to be so lying in the living_  
_room drunk naked_

"Can I tempt you, Miss Granger?"

"You know I'm underage, Mr. Malfoy."

"Have a seat, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No, sir."

"You don't have to refer to me as 'sir.' 'Lucius' will suffice."

A bottle of wine stands between us. It hasn't rained in the Garden for a long time, but Asphodel is like a cactus. No one dares touch her. She can go a much longer time without a drink.

"Where is Draco?"

"I don't know. I'm sure he'll be down in time for dinner."

_and dreaming, in the absence_  
_of electricity..._

In the fireplace, the flames grow hotter. But no brighter. I cannot see this warmth, but I feel it tickle my skin. I don't know, but I _know_.

She doesn't like my eyes on her. She fidgets restlessly. Asphodel will soon prefer to bloom in shadows. What to do with her hands, what to do. I could think of a few things, many things. Unclean things that would tarnish the pure snow. Better, I know, be it all black, where no stains mark those perfect petals.

The bottle sits on the table before her, and her eyes reach it unconsciously. Her restless hands draw a glass out of air and fill it with wine.

"I wish you wouldn't stare at me."

"You don't like attention?"

She holds the glass in a dainty hand. Eyes never waver. "No."

No such thing as honesty, my Asphodel.

_over and over eating the low root_  
_of the asphodel,  
__gray fate..._

Emotionless. Motionless. One moment like hours, passing with each blink of her fair eyes, with every twitch of her shaking knee that moves the hem back, back, back. Wine blushes, rosy cheeks not content painted rouge. So she raises her glass, tilts her head back, washes away her trepidations. Asphodel sets such sharp spines against the world, to protect her sweet little fruit.

A timepiece on the mantel chimes. Still four hours before we all wake from this lovely dream. Still time before the night's spell over (sunlight) breaks, and (dawn) creeps over Asphodel like a warm blanket. I stand.

"The hour is late, Miss Granger."

She shakes her head in stern refusal. "I'm not tired."

"We should retire."

"I'll wait for Draco."

"Draco isn't coming."

"Yes, he is."

_rolling in generation_  
_on the flowery couch_

From behind her chair, I rest my hand on her head. I can feel all her energy, all her potential, all her fury, all fit to burst forth from pale pistils. My other hand reaches her shoulder as I bend forward.

Oh, Asphodel. She comes into full bloom at my touch, petals uncurling with a sigh. One by one I pluck them. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me—

"Please . . . don't—"

But if she loves me and if she loves me not, her roots are tied to my garden and she cannot be free until spring beckons pruning. Even should (sunlight) find her in my grasp, she would wither at his touch. The moon will bleach her lovely pale petals pure white.

"I—I . . ."

"Shh . . ."

My Asphodel. She loves me.

_as on a bank in Arden—  
my only rose tonite's the treat  
of my own nudity._

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End file.
